Steeped in History
Dia 13 Chile: Pasarela Río Frío-El Amarillo (88km)
The fog is shifting and flickering gold. A course charted straight through thick forest. The dewy grass shimmers like bioluminescence in shallow seas.
The cafe waitress said she’d lived 15 years in the tiny town of Villa Santa Lucía. She thought we’d struggle to find a round meal.
“It’s a bit difficult getting lunch here, there’s never anything open.”
We asked why the school was quiet across the street today.
“They’ve all gone trekking, including both my children, they’re 8 and 10. When they're older they’ll travel 60km to Chaitén for secondary school.
The same Chaitén evacuated in 2009 after a huge volcanic eruption. A school in the eye of the storm. These are truly children of the mountains.
We had a choice at Santa Lucía: turn right and cross the Andes to rejoin the Argentinian desert, a barren yet warm and sun drenched place. Or head straight ahead, into Chilean fjords and ferry crossings, with a volcano or two to skirt around and a more threatening weather forecast.
We chose volcanic fjords. A unanimous decision.
Fuel acquired. Fresh in the legs. A multileveled ascent ahead. I listen to the Arsenal podcast, picking over the minutiae of a two goal lead let slip at West Ham. The mood is one of anguish, and familiarity. Mountains may be on the mind but North London still guns the heart. Title gone? Don’t let it be so Bukayo!
The sign at the cafe said ‘quien se apura en la Patagonia pierde su tiempo’. Those who rush in Patagonia lose time.
Generally we follow this advice, but today’s route includes an electrifying downhill. We will rush. And you can’t stop us.
For a history teacher and a self-confessed nerd of the past, the first two chapters have been light on my subject.
Time to remedy that.
There’s a ton of historical texts that inspired this journey, here’s a pair you may enjoy.
The Epic
Silver, Sword, and Stone: Three Crucibles in the Latin American Story (2020) by Marie Arana
An enthralling and ambitious study of a continent fused with money, violence and religion. It’s an arguably reductive, rather negative way to assess the region, but this triple prong does provide a useful framework to chart its colonial past.
Is this an exaggeration of sorts or is Arana wielding a scalpel that cuts straight to the traumatic, tumorous truth?
I love the way she entangles the macro themes with the personal stories of three individuals. These are the symbiotic prisms through which we must analyse history to ensure it is both engaging and factual.
The Beauty
The Shadow of the Sun: My African Life (1998) by Ryszard Kapuscinski
(Reccomended by my brilliant sister)
A masterful blend of poetic illustration, empathy, veracious history, and insightful observation.
The man knows his way around a comma. His style is lucid and lustrous. It's an elegance that earned him the nickname of ‘Maestro’ from García Márquez himself.
The population of Africa was a gigantic, matted, crisscrossing web, spanning the entire continent and in constant motion, endlessly undulating, bunching up in one place and spreading out in another, a rich fabric, a colourful arras.
Kapuscinski led a life. He lived through twenty-seven revolutions and coups, was jailed forty times, and survived four death sentences. All whilst travelling Asia, the Americas, Europe and of course, Africa.
The narrative bounds over the African continent, descending to a new country in each chapter. Some of these are longer; packed with comprehensive history. Those on Rwanda (focusing on the history leading up to the genocide), the Sudan (and its civil wars), Zanzibar (the anti-Arab coup), and Liberia (the destruction of a state) stand out in particular.
In short, he’s one of those people you’d love to have a pint with. But you’d probably have to trawl through downtown Monrovia to find him. (£3 second hand here)
The road winds on into clouds. White lines turn to yellow, the sign of a steep incline to come. At the top we are shrouded in mist. But great things await. Biscuit boost, pannier checks, test the bungees. Lock and load.
Ritchie Sacramento starts to build.
At first we slice carefully through the cloud. A pounding collision with the metal barrier is last on the list today. And then the mist clears suddenly, clarity floods our vision. An even steeper drop. The Andean response to a Center Parks death slide.
The mountain swats us down, two rolling insects tickling its neck and shoulders. Then straight over the near vertical arm, hurtling, whooping, beaming in pura alegría. 33.6mph on touring bikes is nothing to be sniffed at. Besides I couldn’t sniff I tried, all focus is on keeping balance and trying to fly.
Mogwai hit their exultant crescendo. The wind whips away our worries.
Later I draft behind Jake on an arrow straight road. My stomach still week and physical condition yet to peak.
By sundown we’ve arrived in a sort of jungle. Dense foliage lines the road on both sides. As campsites are shut in this late season, we ask around for garden pitching space.
But several very Chilean rejections block our path. There is often a closed off nature to the people here. Jake is convinced it’s the creep of neoliberalism, isolating people and encouraging self-preservation over open armed welcome.
Finally, a tiny clearing in thick forest. The plant density will keep out morning rains just fine.
We bed down to dream of future ferries. A new valley ahead, and it’s got feckin fjords on.
Track: Ritchie Sacramento - Mogwai
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